


Under the Knife I Surrendered

by Gypsywoman13



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Has Nightmares, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Graphic Description, Hallucinations, Humiliation, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hydra (Marvel), Manipulation, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pain, Physical Abuse, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Slow Burn, Torture, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:42:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25645237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gypsywoman13/pseuds/Gypsywoman13
Summary: He fell from the train and in doing so fell right back into Hydra's clutches. He fought tooth and nail, but eventually that wasn't enough.---Basically an in depth telling of Bucky's continued experiments and psychological conditioning with Hydra to eventually become The Winter Soldier. (Mind the tags, this is a dark fic)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic in a looooooonnng time. I used to write on another site for Supernatural and that tapered off to be something a little more personal exploring my OC's. I actually never intended on writing anything for Captain America, mainly involving Bucky because I worry I will get so much wrong it's seriously screwing with my head. But, here I am taking the dive because I finally got hit with the insane need to write this one specifically. The title and story inspiration comes from the song Monster by Starset and countless images/viewings of the movies with Bucky looking so confused and in pain. I technically shouldn't even be writing this and should be working on my book but like I said the call came. I must listen.
> 
> This will not be a nice fic, it will be dark and sad. You will probably hate me and want to clutch Bucky to you. Now I love Bucky, want nothing but good to happen to him in everything but I also want to explore the depths. The grit. To also sate anyone curious I have seen these films too many times for me to count, still need to purchase and read the comics, writing this I had multiple tabs up to make sure I had certain things right.
> 
> Please be aware of the tags, I didn't know how to tag it in regards to what I intend on doing so thus Non-Canon Compliant is there just to cover my ass pretty much. Not sure I will continue writing this, if I do it will be maybe next week if I can write more of my book since I've been easily distracted these past few nights. That is my first priority. Oh and if anyone likes it then I might consider it, my nerves are getting the better of me so kudos and comments are appreciated. Please also Constructive Criticism if there is criticism to be had. What else?
> 
> *exhales* This is a long note...I'm sure I've missed something but I'm just going to take the plunge. Thank you for reading my anxiety filled babble and reading this story/chapter (still debating).

_December 1944_

He fell. Actually more importantly before that he got blasted out the side of the already opened train, shredded like a tin can from the enhanced weaponry on the Hydra metal man. The impact his body made as he scrambled to grab a hold of something the more he moved out. His fingers finally locked onto a bar, the welding on one end completely non-existent leaving him two anchor points but the middle was well on its way to becoming free. The train sped along, wintry air biting at his exposed face and desperate hands. Hearing a loud clang that could only be the shield he’d been too stupid to pick up, his best friend’s helmet-less face came into view. “Bucky! Hang on!”

Steve, bless his stupid punk ass soul, tried to climb out and reach him and Bucky…well Bucky tried his damnedest to meet him. Because frankly he didn’t want to die. He knew, a part of him knew that this was the end. The impact, the chill, the fact that the welding creaked in protest when he shifted closer. Mere inches from taking Steve’s hand the bar gave out. The scream that left him wasn’t even registering in his brain as him, nor the fact that Steve was getting further and further away looking on in disbelief…in pain. Thing was that pain was nothing compared to what he felt when he hit the jagged rocks of the icy ravine. If only he could tell Steve that the pain he was going through watching Bucky fall was a kindness compared to the rocks, he’d imagine the blonde would give him a chastising look. He could see it. He could see Steve now, small and drawing his pictures that just amazed him someone could create while he sat on the couch cushions they’d pulled out for him to sleep on.

He could hear a bigger Steve say, “Buck…stop.” And of course Bucky would be persistent. Insisting that Steve needed to smile because his pain was minimal and temporary. He’d been spared the pain of what Bucky went through. He'd be fine. He’d move on, marry that gal Carter have babies and maybe even be a famous artist like those old guys and their art in museums.

For a minute in the memories and delusions, he wondered if this was all a dream and he was really back at camp with the other Howlies. They had a plan, Zola needed to be caught. They had a train to catch. A train. The cold. Steve. Bucky’s right cheek twitched. Everything hurt, but dully as if he were floating in the ache. Did he hit his head? Did he get too drunk dancing after a long shift and pass out in some alley or on the stairs leading up to his apartment? No. The cold. That couldn’t be ignored no matter how much his brain tried to make him think otherwise. Tried to fool him, no one, not even James Buchanan Barnes could pull the wool of his eyes with that damn icy wind and snow whipping over his prone form. Fluttering his lids open, the world was a blur that tilted and tinged slightly red. Of course if he’d been an outsider he would have seen the blood trickling from above down into the corner and into his eyeball.

The first thing he wanted to do was try and get up, but nothing worked. Nausea seated within his gut and burned the back of his throat, his saliva thickening at the sensation. The sound of crunching footfalls had him rolling his head to the left and in doing so he not only saw the hazy gun wielding man but his lack of a left arm. Bucky’s eyes rolled in their sockets just as hands fisted in his blue jacket and pulled. A seemingly never ending streak of crimson trailing in the pure white snow, unknown guttural voices reminding him of the Hydra facility in Austria after they were captured. Hydra. He fell back into unconsciousness before he could attempt to fight with a useless sack of skin and bones or shout profanities. In the darkness his breath shook, a hand gentle, friendly, and concerned touching his bicep having him turn to once again see a smaller Steve. The Steve that didn’t get experimented on and fill out into Captain America.

“You okay Buck? Here I thought I was the one with asthma.” Bucky knew it was meant to cheer him up but all he could manage was a half-smile that didn’t meet his blue-grey eyes. The blonde’s face grew sad realizing his joke didn’t work as well as he had hoped. “Are you going to say it again?”

“Say what?” Bucky questioned, dread that Steve knew how he got through his own experiments Arnim Zola put him through. Experiments that burned and made him scream, a different kind of scream than the one that echoed down…down…down into the ravine. The train. The cold. Steve. The images flashed through his brain and his head turned as if that would simply transport him there to remember.

Steve’s touch squeezed causing Bucky to cry out at the pain on his left bicep. He looked down to see it torn and bleeding, pieces of fabric, skin and sinew, and a hint of bone to really drive the seriousness of the injury home. Panicked he met Steve’s blue eyes, flecks of green hidden within. How was he so calm touching the wound? Why wasn’t he worried or saying they needed to get to a doctor? Steve answered as if nothing was wrong, that nothing had changed. “Barnes, James Buchanan. Sergeant,” his voice slowly morphed into his own until Steve was gone and Bucky was back on the metal table, strapped down staring up at the ceiling in defiance. “32557038.”

“No!” Steve’s final shout snapped him awake just as the bone saw whirred to life, making the first contact on his mangled limb.

Bucky found that this scream rivaled the fall.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I decided to continue after messing around on my photoshop program last night (should've been working on my book but gave myself a break). My brain made a compelling argument and now you all get to journey down this dark road with me. 
> 
> Remember the tags and rating, even if this will start off fairly tame it will shift and all make sense. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy! :)
> 
> [Once more, I know not the comics. Just the movies and even then, no matter how many times I have seen them, I still have tabs up and making sure I am getting 'certain' things right. Not everything because, this is fanfic and not completely canon compliant.]
> 
> Banner made by me.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The smell of chemicals sent his mind to thinking about the med tent at basecamp. The long walk back from captivity, saved by Captain America. Steve Rogers. Bucky’s best friend who no longer had ailments or the knobs of his back showing through thin shirts. His pal big and strong, on the battlefield doing what they had fought about countless times before Bucky was drafted and even after up until he shipped off. He remembered putting off the checkup upon their return for as long as he could, claiming the others needed it more regardless of the fact of what he’d been through. No one spoke about it. Dernier, Jones, Falsworth, Morita and Dum Dum sharing looks with him, waiting to see if he made the first move. He never did and never would. So when he finally walked in to that tent, oh man did he ever know that that smell could never be forgotten and that is how he knew where he was. Well…kind of.

Bucky opened his eyes, fluttering, blinking, and rolling this way and that trying to dispel the dry haze that lingered there. After a few tight squeezes and overdramatic widening of them did he see more clearly. The room was pristine, a mixture of brick and concrete, a rolling table of shiny metallic tools on his left, a wooden chair on his right. He lay, strapped down to the same kind of adjustable table he’d been on in Austria. Propped up just enough along with his left shoulder. It was then he furrowed his brows, the rawness of his throat bringing a flash of memory that had him tense. Bucky glanced at his arm, seeing his bicep…the stump, wrapped and dressed, smelling to high heaven of the very chemicals that woke him. He had to tell himself that at least it smelled clean and not infected, he knew that scent too well just like any soldier did. It was enough to put someone off of rations for days if not weeks. Same went for charred and burned bodies.

A shudder raced down his spine, causing a whimper and a puff of air to escape his cracked lips. White dots invaded his vision, fading as he breathed through it. _‘I guess nothing for the pain…’_

Outside the door, straight ahead, he registered what he thought was guttural in the snowy ravine was in fact just harsh. Still familiar. Soviets. So that is who had found him and patched him up. He flinched at his brain trying to piece together the moments he’d been somewhat lucid. The bone saw had been used to clean up the edges and take off what couldn’t be saved. A burning in his nostrils told him a part of him wanted to cry but he pushed it down. Bucky knew he should be glad that he had anything left of his arm at all, that he wasn’t dead…that he wasn’t in Hydra’s grasp. America was in an alliance with the Soviets and since they found him he would be alright. They’d probably already discovered his tags, notified through the proper channels and waiting for Steve to come. Because Steve would be the one that would come, regardless if anyone said otherwise. It was Steve and Bucky to the end of the line. Bucky figured once he saw the guy he would test the waters, see what Stevie planned on doing next. Of course he wanted to fight the good fight, serve his country but maybe this time the fact that Bucky nearly died would have him telling him they were heading home finally. No more fighting.

That ‘nearly died’ part didn’t really make sense to him though. He should have died. No one could survive that fall. Bucky would be a fool if he didn’t notice how back at the bar the alcohol he nursed didn’t affect him like the others. His scrapes had healed in hours. Now he didn’t have super strength or get big muscles like Steve did, but Bucky suspected he was far from normal. Something was not right. Whatever experiments Zola performed on him in his repetitions of name, rank, and ID, spoken whether a question was asked or not, had done something. Cured him of the pneumonia that prevented working on the factory floor. Made it so after a few drinks he couldn’t get drunk let alone feel a buzz. Hell, he wondered if after a few fast healed scrapes could his body try and grow his limb back? Doubtful but he didn’t want to discount anything. He hadn’t told Steve what he noticed, not the Howlies and certainly not the nurses. Giving some cocky lame excuse that they couldn’t lay a finger on him. Couldn’t get him to talk. Nothing.

Bucky’s thoughts were interrupted at the grating of a heavy latch being removed before the door opened and in walked a mousy brown haired scientist with round glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. A thin moustache, wiry build, everything about him screamed sensible. He smiled at the soldier and stood beside him, reaching a hand out near where Bucky’s right hand was detained and waited for the fingers to uncurl and shake of his own volition. Once done, albeit awkwardly, he sniffed and held the file with his free hand. “Sergeant Barnes. Glad to see you are alert.” He pushed his glasses up. “My name is Dr—”

“Listen Doc,” Bucky cleared his throat, it doing nothing to improve the rasp in his voice. “I appreciate all that you’ve done, swell job, but I just want to know when I will be taken out of your care and home.”

The doctor shifted from foot to foot. “I see. Then if that is all you wish, I am afraid that information is unavailable.”

“When will it be available?” Bucky asked, a bite in his words.

Another shift and he sat down on the chair. “Sergeant Barnes, your recovery while remarkable is also our highest priority. Sending you home is inadvisable and impossible at this time. No, here you shall stay so we can monitor your progress and prevent possible infection. You see, you are lucky to be alive. Are you aware of this?”

He gave a calculated nod in reply. What the doctor said sounded like it made sense, but there was no way Steve would let them keep him. He was too thick skulled to see reason. The moment he arrived he’d be storming into the room with a stream of people shouting after. The idea had him smirk. Bucky raised his brows at the question of what was so funny and he quickly apologized. “Sorry, no disrespect but this isn’t the first time someone has told me what you have.”

It was true and not just for Bucky but that umbrella covered all the men in the 107th, all the men from other countries and regiments, Steve included with how scared he made Bucky every winter or back alley fight years prior. It was true, but nothing new. Regardless of this time being different. The doctor went on to explain the plan he had been formulating since the surgery and while Bucky slept, about how with the war going on right now it was agreed that it wasn’t safe or logical to send someone to retrieve him. He’d been assured that Captain Rogers vehemently argued the orders but eventually submitted after reassurance from Special Operatives Executive Margaret Carter. The name hit a note within Bucky that brought a ringing to his ears. It all sounded like something Steve would do and he’d seen the way the two were around each other. He must have not been paying attention because a hand touched his forearm and he once more tensed, the action making him grit his teeth and narrow his eyes. Not a sound escaped this time. Not in front of another person and that was what mattered, keeping any suffering internal.

“I am truly deeply sorry for the inconvenience Sergeant, but there is nothing I can do. My hands are tied.”

“And apparently so are mine,” the soldier joked. Licking his lips he glanced down at the straps. “Why am I restrained if you don’t mind me asking Doc?”

“Ah yes. Well it seems you have a tendency to react violently in your sleep and it is best to have the precautions not only for your safety but for anyone administering care. It will prevent you from turning onto your side so that the limb may heal properly in an elevated position.” The doctor paused to check the chart he held. “I will see about getting you some water to take in small sips. Unfortunately anything to help the pain does not appear to work so if there is anything else I can do to assist in your comfort in the meantime do let me or one of the medical assistants know. Get as much rest as you can Sergeant Barnes. Once you have had time to adjust, I would like to talk again and ask questions of my own if you will permit me.”

Bucky thought it over but did not respond, even though logically he had no reason to distrust this man. His explanations seemingly checking out in his brain and the fact that with this war the Soviets…this doctor was technically an ally…something didn’t feel right. He was a sniper for a reason, even if he wasn’t as smart as Stevie or some of the other men, at high ground he could see the bigger picture yet through his scope saw what others couldn’t. Whatever it was he couldn’t see right now, he’d find it. So he nodded in hopes that that would satisfy the doctor, softening his eyes in a warm half smile to lure into a false sense of security. He’d rest, but keep his guard up. Then the minute…the damn minute that he saw the man falter he would fight harder than when Zola and his goons had him. After all, he survived that fall. What could he do _now_ considering he did that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future updates will be random, apologies.
> 
> Kudos and comments appreciated! They feed my soul and fuel the writing process. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm back! Good news, I have made progress on my book this week compared to last. Which was really frustrating since I was in such a brain fog. To clarify my book is not this, it is an actual book. A novel that I am writing that I have plans to publish in the near future. So just to tell you why that is so important and the updates on this will be random....or at least on some occasions they might be. Also I got into Animal Crossing on my Switch and that has been my life on top of writing. I think I am going to plan on writing this and posting it on the weekends. Maybe a chapter or two, we shall see. If you want two chapters on the weekend kind of like last weekend then let me know, otherwise it will just be the one. Trying to get myself on a schedule, but alas writing (and characters) are not that easy to lock down.
> 
> So without further adieu, here is chapter 3! Hope you like! Oh and I updated the tags as well, there will most likely be more as the story goes along with each chapter. So make sure you keep paying attention to the tags. :)

The doctor was right about one thing. He was violent in his sleep. Restless too. His dreams held no respite from his current situation…condition. Visions of war, sounds of gunfire, grenades and advanced weaponry from the tank that took them down at Azzano. Seeing his men and those who weren’t yet he felt a kinship with in circular cages beneath a walkway, treated like nothing more than expendable workers to build their weapons. Fuel their war resources. He dreamed about the burn in his chest accompanied by the rattle when he breathed. A cough so debilitating that he felt like passing out or worried he might break a rib. Steve had pneumonia nearly every winter and so he knew what he was dealing with. Sadly no one cared to give him medicine and let him rest. Not like he would have accepted the charity, having to endure everything the others went through because that is what a good Sergeant did. He whimpered in his sleep in an attempt to shout, tensing in his bindings in the need to fight when the soldiers took him away from his fellow comrades. When they practically tossed him onto the medical chair that reclined to act as a table if necessary.

Zola’s face hovering over him in observation rather than actual greeting of man to man. He dreamed about the needle inserted in his arm, a bag hanging from a metal stand containing yellow fluid that seemed _wrong._ Then the burn in his lungs was replaced by the burn in his veins, from crown to toe. Endless bags. Exhaustion, pain and retreating as best he could into the deepest recesses of his mind while he spewed the same information over and over again. Not registering that they weren’t interrogating him but experimenting on him instead. Bucky jerked at the touch of a man wearing a blue helmet with the letter A on it looking a lot like a less scrawny Steve. His eyes fluttered open when the touch felt more real than what he’d been dreaming about and he saw a nurse wrapping up his stump of an arm. Reality crashed hard. He guessed he should have been thankful that his unconscious mind hadn’t made it to the worst part of his entire life. That fall that separated him from his team and the reason his arm was the way it was now.

The nurse was beautiful and he would’ve joked if Steve were around that she was a better sight to wake up to than his punk mug. He might still when Steve showed up. If Steve showed up. He still needed to determine whether this Doctor and facility was real. That he wasn’t just another prisoner, regardless how correct they were for strapping him down. Bucky would not have allowed himself to heal the way they required if they hadn’t done that. Nightmares be damned. He was a lot like Steve in that respect that he couldn’t stay down. Not for long. Giving her one of his famous smiles that didn’t quite match how he felt internally, it was more for pretenses and appearing normal than anything, he was glad to see her blush and smile back. She apologized for waking him in a thick accent, not quite fluent in English but he told her it was okay all the same.

“How does it look?” he asked, raising his brows and looking at his arm as if it were just a run of the mill scratch.

Bucky knew that until he was back with Steve and the Howlies he wouldn’t fully process the lack of a limb. His brain wouldn’t allow him that luxury. He knew he should feel something. Panic maybe that he couldn’t wiggle his fingers or would have to learn how to change his clothes and do everyday things without it. No. None of that. War was war and nowhere was safe to break down…nowhere was safe unless it was back home with Steve and his family. But even then? Would it truly be safe? The dreams said otherwise.

She tried to tell him in as many words as she knew that he was healing with no sign of infection so far. Explaining that she would be back later to check on him and bring him some food, he was soon alone. Bucky’s face fell from the smile immediately after the door shut. What could he do in the meantime? Chances were she’d notify the doctor that he was awake again, so there might be more talking and he was actually looking forward to that. However, he needed to steel himself. Though his brain knew it couldn’t just unburden and relax, it still threatened. He felt it poke at his chest and told him to look at his left arm. Bucky didn’t. He looked everywhere but it and went as far as to fool himself into thinking he could still feel it there. A phantom. It helped push things back down just in time for the door to open and the doctor to walk inside much the same smile as when he last was awake.

“How was your rest Sergeant?” the doctor asked.

Bucky inhaled and tilted his chin up and to the side in a shrug he didn’t dare do with his shoulders. “It’s rest.”

The doctor’s smile shifted to hold back from chuckling. “And the water and food? How did that settle?” His attention went from Bucky to his file he was waiting to write in.

“Just fine doc.”

He watched the mousy man come over to his left, he admittedly felt his heart skip a beat uncomfortably. Whereas with the nurse he could be flirtatious and dive into his charm, he couldn’t do that here. The doctor laid the file and pen on Bucky’s blanketed legs, showing that he had nothing to hide as he tenderly touched the limb not going anywhere near where the tear and cleanup had been done. Still it made Bucky wince and grunt in pain that he passed off as mere discomfort. After a few long silent minutes the doctor stopped and took back his file to scribble his findings, whatever they were. Sighing he stopped and placed the pen in his pocket. “This is not a prison Sergeant Barnes. While I do appreciate your willingness to communicate, I feel as though you are doing yourself a disservice. If you are not sleeping well, nauseous, or in pain I’d like to know so then I can better aid in your healing.”

Bucky licked his bottom lip. “I thought you said you didn’t have anything to help with the pain.”

The doctor nodded. “That is correct, however we are analyzing your blood not only for infection monitoring purposes but to see what your metabolism will sustain long enough to be effective. Your metabolism burns through amphetamines and the like. It is truly remarkable,” the man removed his glasses to wipe them with the collar of his white coat before replacing them on the bridge of his nose. “From what the nurse tells me your wounds are healing at a rate unheard of. Which begs the question if you were born with these astounding genetics or a part of a trial in soldier enhancement on the field not entirely dissimilar to the Nazi’s and their camps?”

He should’ve known they would have noticed the abnormalities presented within him, but he didn’t expect the question to be so forthright. If he didn’t answer it made him look like he was hiding something and if he did answer, he would be giving information to unknown people he just didn’t trust. Also if he answered in a way that was being vague and not entirely honest…that too left him in a tight spot. The doctor gave nothing away. No twinkle in his eye that said he had him cornered. Just a genuine concern for his patient. It unnerved Bucky to high heaven. But he’d made it this far into the war without giving a single nibble, he wasn’t going to start now. Seeing this, the doctor pivoted and stood at Bucky’s feet, blinking calmly. Silently. Watching.

“I understand that war lacks trust. Experiences leave scars that we cannot see. There is a colleague of mine that manages this facility as well as others that is very interested in seeing that you are comfortable. I was told not to say anything but if this paints us in a better light then I will tell you. There are plans to give you a new arm once you are healed enough and we can better understand how your body functions. It would not only allow you the recovery of a normal life but to continue fighting alongside your comrades and Captain Rogers if you so choose rather than discharged home.”

Bucky exhaled with wide eyes, not being able to hold back his reaction at the news.

“If you are wondering why offer something to an American soldier that is not one of our own…I shall put it simply. It appears that you have some friends in high places Sergeant Barnes. This arm is an idea that could revolutionize treatment of soldiers such as yourself. You’d asked for information about why you cannot leave yet…not only to monitor your health but also the plans have not been completed to offer you the chance at deciding to participate in such a procedure.”

Bucky found himself staring at his stump while the doctor spoke. There was no ignoring it now. The rabbit had been pulled out of the hat. It all seemed too good to be true but there was something about the way the doctor mentioned Steve that churned in his stomach. “What do you mean continue fighting?”

The doctor smiled sadly. “I’m afraid Captain Rogers is aware of your condition and that you would immediately be returned home. He threatened not only to come here against orders, before reason was seen, but also to accompany you back and remain. The arm was concocted by none other than Howard Stark in hopes to keep a valuable asset in the war when we are near the end. Really Sergeant Barnes, I have said too much. So I ask for your discretion when it is presented to you when the time is right to make the decision.”

That made Bucky snort. What decision was that? It sounded like he had none. He wasn’t going to be the reason that Steve went home when he would damn well be the reason the war was won. The world needed Steve. Captain America. It didn’t matter that Bucky was exhausted and tired of fighting the good fight. Hell, he never wanted to be in this war in the first place. He was drafted. But he played it off like no big deal all for how Steve looked up to the opportunity to serve his country. He stuck it out when he could have easily just tried to injure himself or something to be discharged home, but it was Steve’s voice and frustrating determination that kept him putting one hundred percent effort into the fight. Bucky didn’t go home even when everyone told him he had more than enough reason to and that no one would blame him after _‘what he’d been through’._ No one knew what he’d been through. Not really. So there was no way in Hell that he was going to just accept defeat or accept an arm and not stick around to make sure the punk didn’t kill himself. If it weren’t for Bucky, Steve would have had too many bullets embedded in that thick skull of his with his sniper skills. Everything Steve had done before was pure dumb luck.

To the end of the line. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.

“No decision doc. I’ll take the arm when it’s ready. Just let me know,” Bucky said, face hardened and focused.

It was the doctor’s turn to be shocked now. “You trust me? You will let me know when you are feeling unwell?”

Bucky hummed in the back of his throat that sounded more like a rumble. “Doc, I don’t have to trust you to know what needs to be done to end this war so we can all go back to our lives.” He paused. “I will try and be more vocal about the pain…” he conceded.

“Thank you Sergeant Barnes,” the doctor replied, turning around to head to the door and stopped. “I’ll see about some eggs and toast instead of broth. Try and rest. It really will help even though it doesn’t seem it. We all have our horrors.”

With that he left and Bucky felt confused and guilty. This was more forwardness than he’d received with Hydra. If whatever was saying something was off about the doctor and this place was wrong…then maybe he was more damaged from what Zola did than he thought. Bucky Barnes was at a loss. He wished Steve were there to help him figure out if his thoughts were playing tricks on him. The sensation was maddening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments appreciated! Let me know what you think as it fuels my writing. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week has gone by and that means a new chapter. So this week has been weird for me in terms of writing. I wrote one chapter, ONE of my book and I'm trying to be okay with the fact that I can take breaks and write something else. By the way, I write other stuff with a friend for fun. I have too many characters in my head to appease and one in particular was being extra needy so I focused on him this week. I was kind of worried honestly that I wouldn't be in the right space or motivation to write this BUT I sat down at my desk and cranked it out. It really helped last weekend to write out an actual plan than ride by the seat of my pants for this. So...without further blabbering as you know I can do with these beginning notes...your new chapter. Enjoy!!!
> 
> ALSO, I went back and changed the first chapter where it said 1945 to December 1944 since I screwed up the year that Bucky technically died with what was on his memorial in the museum in CA: Winter Soldier movie. So if you are confused as to the year marker at the beginning of this chapter...that is why. Apologies.

_1945-1946_

He’d been there for months. His stump long since healed, admittedly sensitive at times then again that could be his imagination. Bucky was moved from the med area to a room that had a bed, his own toilet, sink and mirror, a small table and a lamp. No windows and a guard permanently placed at his door. He did notice that whenever a person was in a room in the facility there were always guards, nothing too special. It became something to expect, despite the red flags. The doctor visited a few times a week to give him someone to talk to. His nightmares still an occurrence but not as frequent. Every day he’d ask how the war effort was going and if Steve reached out to him. He’d written letters, not giving anything away just like he when he was in the 107th and wanted to keep his Ma and sisters happy. Bucky never let his guard down in the many months of living with the Soviet _allies_. The progress on the arm a part of the updates he received from the doctor and every now and then they’d walk the halls in their exercises. All to get used to a new way of supporting his balance and doing little things with only one arm. One hand.

To not feel useless he was given books to read after he’d begun to pick up on their language from hearing snippets. Bucky was always a quick learner and knew French and German thanks to Jones teaching everyone on their missions, or at least those who wanted to learn. Occasionally he was allowed to leave his room to work on his exercises as long as he had an escort. No one walked around the place alone. The excuse when he’d asked had been the war of course and that with him lacking a limb and under the protection of them until the procedure could happen, they needed to keep him alive and safe in case of an attack. Hell, so much as a papercut and they were on high alert. He knew because he’d received one on this thumb catching on the page of a book he was reading. It wasn’t until September that the plans for the new arm were presented to him for his final decision. The plans he acted surprised to hear about, remembering what the doctor said.

After giving his consent he was informed that there were still tests that needed to be done before the surgery could be performed, and that the estimated moment would be after the New Year. Bucky’s teeth nearly sounded from grinding too hard at that. He would have been away from Steve and the Howlies for an entire year by then. Under constant surveillance, feeling more like a lab rat than a guest out of goodwill. Not even a letter back from Steve, raising his suspicions even more but then again if they were to try and fake it, he would know right away that it wasn’t his best friend’s. He knew the curves and emotions placed into every letter. A subtle flourish if Steve was talking about something he was frustrated or passionate about. No, Bucky had no outside comforts. Nothing but the word of the good doctor and excuse on top of well thought out excuse. But he knew that he wasn’t strong enough to fight an entire facility to get free let alone send out an SOS. So he played along. It hurt him and toyed with his mind to do such a necessary thing to survive. 

When the day finally came he wanted to vomit from the nerves wringing his stomach and heart for all it was worth. So many doctors surrounded where he lay on the table, some were mainly there to observe history in the making. A metal plated arm that was said to be able to recalibrate and all these other technical terms that he didn’t know but if back home would’ve been yearning to learn more. Anything involving mechanics interested him…just not…not when he was the test subject. He was reassured while they moved around double checking their equipment that this was the final working product. Though being the first human to have it, it would of course still have bugs to be smoothed out. It would react like his flesh arm but far stronger and more durable. They’d studied enough of him in the meantime as well as they could to account for the accelerated healing and metabolism that burned through anything regarding pain relief, inebriation, sleep aid, or antibiotic.

They managed to put him under enough using three times the normal dose to take down an elephant. Leaving him half asleep and with a constant reintroduction of the dosage by the mousy doctor he’d familiarized himself with for an entire year. He kept his eyes closed for the procedure and tried not to wince or tense up when the saw sounded. Their muffled conversation through their masks in a tongue other than English, did nothing to stop him from understanding what was going on. They were needing to cut away his entire stump and even go into his shoulder and side of his ribs for better control and anchoring. At one point he thought he felt a shadow of pain only for it to disappear. The entire procedure took hours, doctors switching out to do their assigned parts in connecting to the bone, muscle, and tissues. He peeked his eyes open in time to see the shiny silver metal limb being carried over for attachment and quickly he closed his lids again.

The added weight a shock. Almost jarring. Because of the material of it, it was far heavier than his normal one and he found himself pumping his right fist. They had him sit up with assistance to get to the back and eventually he smelled the cauterizing of his own flesh. Sealing the wound where it met metal. The weight worse upright even with the tranquilizer. Bucky shakily released a breath of relief when a word of congratulations at a successful anchoring was spoken and he was laid back down. All that was left was to calibrate the internal hardware and he would be transferred to the recovery room where he’d be drugged through a line rather than by hand as he healed. The relief did not last. Not when the engineers were poking around in a panel of the arm. Thing was Bucky had noticed since Zola’s experiment that he could hear far better than anyone or before. Like Steve could. He never let on and yet he’d been so shut away from people at the facility that if there was something worth listening in on, he was too far. Too isolated. The guards didn’t speak and the halls echoed, restricting proper communication. Now though…now he heard _everything_.

It was one thing to suspect on the verge of a strong gut knowledge that he’d been lied to, an entirely other thing to hear it spoken in hushed congratulatory whispers in the corner of the room. “I will make sure to mention to our mutual colleague of your success in technique. Convincing him that the war is still ongoing when in fact it has been a year since its end…clever.”

“Ah, but do not forget Captain Rogers was a vital component. Without him the story would fail to be of substance,” the mousy doctor remarked.

“True,” the unknown man sighed. “If only Dr. Zola could have been here today to witness his flawless plan and design, rather than stuck in that new organization to rebuild what Schmidt left behind and let us not forget Captain Rogers’ _heroic_ sacrifice…”

“A shame indeed, but it is necessary if we are to succeed. As you said, there were simply one too many unfortunate events that delayed a greater purpose. With the Winter Soldier Program now in motion and Zola’s infiltration underway, things can go forward at full speed.”

“What now for the soldier?”

The doctor shrugged. “We hand him over to the branch specifically set up for Sergeant Barnes. He will be made into the Fist of Hydra.”

He felt light headed and it wasn’t because of what he was on either. Bucky’s eyes blinked open and he went to pinch the bridge of his nose at the proverbial rug taken out from under him. The shine of silver stopped him mid motion to see he’d raised his new arm while the engineer stared in awe. His eyes widened, turning his hand this way and that. The spectacle caused the two doctors to come over, the smaller one the only one that Bucky knew beside him on that side. “Sergeant Barnes? Please do not try and move the arm, you need to---”

His jaw tightened and eyes bore into the doctor as his hand shot out and grabbed hold of the mousy man’s neck. At first the doctor tried to calm him, tapping his arm and trying to breathe out words that he was safe. That it was him. As if his brain was too drug addled to understand where he was and what was happening. Bucky growled, “You lied to me.” The realization hit not only the man turning purple, but the others in the room that Bucky had overheard. They’d underestimated Bucky and that was their biggest mistake, taking him for a fool. Their actions turned from taking the same approach in soothing, to restraining. Trying to get another higher dosage into his system while attempting to pry the strong hand from a throat. Flesh fingers no match for his sturdier ones.

“Disable the arm!” someone ordered, but it was too late.

The pop and crack of things broken in a delicate human neck sounded, deafening despite the chaos. Bucky’s arm released and thudded with a clang to the table, useless. The drugs a wave crashing over his consciousness. But the sound. The sound of the liar’s body as it hit the floor, the vomiting of a weak stomached surgeon, and the horror filled curses from the rest were like sweet music to his ears. Even if he was terrified that his initial thought at the bottom of the ravine about Hydra having him again was right. Then there was the most heart wrenching part that felt like he was dying a thousand times over…Steve…Steve was...he was dead…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments greatly appreciated, as it fuels the fire under my ass and warms up the cockles of my heart. Much love and hope you all are doing well! :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. So no post last weekend. If you remember last time I posted I mentioned I was going to TRY and post once per weekend...well last week/weekend was a shit show. Everything that could go wrong, went wrong. Also, didn't do ANY writing for my novel I am working on due to a huge brain fog, personal family happenings that have taken a toll since the first week of July (finally caught up to me emotionally/mentally/physically) and depression having a fun time kicking me around. I will say this week has been somewhat better. I'm getting there. But, that does leave me to going back to my original statement of 'Posts will be random'. Could be once a week, could be every other week, could be I have a good week and I post twice....it really depends on life around me sadly.
> 
> I apologize for getting any hopes up last week. I actually felt so bad for saying I was going to try and post once per weekend that I wanted to get this out so then you had something to read and enjoy. Also to tell you this very message. I appreciate every single one of you that has viewed, bookmarked, subscribed and left kudos/comments. You have no idea how much that means to me that there are people who are enjoying this so far and just plain reading this. Thank you, thank you, thank you! Without further adieu, here is Chapter 5. :)
> 
> Rest In Power King T'Challa, Chadwick Boseman. Wakanda Forever.

Bucky stared at the metal limb. The one that they had said Howard Stark had made. No doubt another lie. The thing was useless. They’d disconnected stuff within to turn it off, otherwise his body was a perfect battery for it. The inner workings just slightly undone so he could understand that what they gave could be taken away without actually removing the item. The gift. How it was anchored to his body told him how heavy and painful it really was. His back and neck hurt from the dead weight, even if it were working properly he imagined it wouldn’t be much of a reprieve due to the materials used. No one needed to tell him that he was being punished for killing the doctor. For being ungrateful. He grit his teeth and dipped his chin, eyes focused hard on the sliver of light underneath the sturdy door to his four walled concrete cell. No more bedroom and they kept to the promised plan of having him heal under the tranquilizer, but at some point before taking him off the sedating drip line he had been transferred to a new facility. It was cleaner, yet the floor had dirt scuff marks from military grade boots. What he could hear was no longer strictly Russian, more German but every now and then he heard a change. Keeping him on his toes.

He’d woken up there. Lying on his right side, hand cuffed to his useless left one behind his back and eventually he managed to sit upright against the wall. The internal debate to lay on his heavier side raged on within. Was it logical to create some form of comfort or to be on alert and at the ready when they came? So in the end Bucky sacrificed the first to be prepared. Do what Steve would do…Steve…Being in the semi-dark room he was left alone with his thoughts. He had no idea how long it took him to heal from the surgery. Probably not long at all with his accelerated healing, if his past injuries since Zola’s attempt at a serum had anything to offer him in terms of a timetable. Alone, Bucky could play back the entire scene in his head. The celebrating from a successful application and procedure, though he figured they probably regretted doing so prematurely with him in the same room. He smirked at the memory of the look of the doctor’s face and the sound his neck made when he snapped it. The smirk fell and he blinked wide and slow.

His death didn’t change the fact that Steve was dead. That he’d been lied to. Bucky knew that something was off. No letters written back from Steve, though chances were they never even made it to him. If the war was over and had been for a year, then that meant so had his friend. _‘I’m with you to the end of the line, pal.’_

Words he’d spoken to Steve and vice versa countless times growing up and what did that even mean now? The end of the line had come for Steve. How? Vague words of ‘heroic sacrifice’ used to sum up his death in a mocked tone, as if reciting a headline from a newspaper. A speech made by those who forged him into Captain America most likely, who knew not the true man behind the shield. Heroic was too godly of a term to use for Steve, more like reckless. Stupid…big hearted. He squeezed his eyes shut from both the burn of dryness from staring at the bottom of the door across the room and the tears springing to life. Bucky hadn’t been there for Steve when his time came, falling flat on his promise to always be there. The thought turned realization struck that Steve didn’t even know that Bucky survived that fall from the train. He’d been there for Bucky’s supposed death. Leaving the only person who had held up the saying, the one who was no longer alive.

_‘It should have been me…’_

If by some miracle he ever did get out of there, he wondered if it was worth it. The image of Steve punching his arm and laying down casually on the cold hard floor like it was just another camp for the night, came to his head. “Of course it is. What about your Ma and Rebecca?” Steve would ask.

The temporary illusion was right. Steve had never been Bucky’s whole world, even if everyone else vowed that was the case. They would have received a notice that he’d died, though the actual details scratched from the paper shipped back home with what little belongings he may have left behind not on his person. That didn’t mean that he couldn’t find a way back to them, fix their grief. James Buchanan Barnes was alive. That was worth something. _He_ was worth more than an arm and whatever Zola had done to him. Footsteps pulled him from his mixture of a mental pep talk, morbid idea of a wishful future, and grieving of Steve. All of those would be a continuous battle now that there were no pretenses. Hydra had him once more. The door opened, he squinted at the light surrounding the dark figures of soldiers entering to grab him. He’d let himself become too distracted to make the first move.

Lifting him up to his feet, they didn’t care if he couldn’t focus enough through the pain gravity was causing on his body on his left side. Bucky tried to wriggle and jerk his frame side to side, even dig his heels of his shoes into concrete flooring without any luck beyond a falter in surprise at his bit of strength. They brought him to a giant room illuminated by far spaced giant round lights. Not enough to know the entire layout, but it was meant to intimidate as well as disorient. Bring fear with the pockets of darkness. Nothing but concrete and grates covering two inch canals to a drainage system somewhere in the flooring. He was pushed to his knees, one hand from two soldiers on each shoulder to hold him there while the others positioned nearby. Keeping him in their sights in case he tried anything beyond the small movements he’d done on the way there.

Seconds dragged on into minutes. Out of the darkness a chain attached to a pulley and hook was pulled closer, the track too high up to see where it was clearly. Bucky swore if he looked into the pitch black hard enough he could see a faint outline. Fingers on his chin brought his attention to the man that had brought it forward, his uniform jacket nowhere in sight but Bucky knew he outranked everyone in that room. He spoke in German to the soldiers behind Bucky, spit foaming and coating his lips as he ordered them to raise him, untie his left arm and secure his right flesh one to the hook. Once done he was able to stand flat in his shoes, not comfortably. Just enough of a pull that his right side stretched like he was in a constant reach for a can of beans on a shelf. It forced the metal limb to feel ten times heavier than it did before, his spine curved slightly from the droop and he grit his teeth ignoring the man tilting his head in approval from the new position. The man was _not_ happy though that there was no eye contact.

Bucky saw the action before it happened. He was backhanded, the hit right between cheek and brow bones making him admittedly see some stars in his left eye. Blinking he looked everywhere but the one in charge to try and focus and was awarded with another smack on the other side. Seeing that Bucky wasn’t going to follow unspoken orders any time soon, an iron grip returned to his chin and nearly pressed nose to nose to make sure his eyes met the guy’s. A somewhat satisfied curl of the lip had him pushing Bucky’s face away. Bucky winced and struggled to not swing from what was meant to destabilize his footing. “Soldier. From this moment on I am your handler and you will address me as such followed by a yes or no if asked a question. Understand?” the handler’s thickly accented voice sounded swollen over the English words he formed.

_‘Should have just kept to the German, pal. Then again not like you know I understand far better than you can fathom…’_ he thought.

A spreading smile played over his lips and he nodded. “Barnes. James Buchanan. Sergeant. 3255---”

He was expecting another backhand or even a punch to the gut. What he wasn’t expecting was the zap to his exposed armpit, the forked ends shoved hard into the spot ripping from him a scream he couldn’t have stopped even if he wanted to. Bucky fought hard through the light headed sensation in his brain, swinging and twisting around on the hook with his boots scraping on concrete. It felt as if the world was moving in a figure eight. No time was given to adjust after the shock and the handler stepped into view having to accommodate to Bucky’s turn. “Understood, soldier?”

Bucky opened his mouth while his eyes fluttered, determination setting in on a face growing pale. “B-Barnes. Ja---”

His scream filled the room that his thoughts were registering as his torture chamber. Whereas in Austria they experimented on him, then with the Soviets they took care to gain his trust and nurture him back to good health in the end giving him an arm built on lies…this man was using a different tactic. There was no scientific curiosity, no gentility. No. It was evident that the next stage in his living nightmare was to break Bucky completely. He resolutely decided that if that was the plan, then he’d give them one Hell of a fight. Bucky rolled his head up to meet the handler’s eyes, giving him the eye contact he so desperately wanted before now. He panted and spat out a glob of saliva at the toe of the man’s boots.

“I can do this all day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again thank you and I hope you understand posts will be random. Please leave kudos/comments if you like this story. It fuels me and makes days or weeks like previous ones seem a little less horrible. Lots of love! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the continued love and reading. Appreciate you all!
> 
> WARNING: This is where the first tags kick in. Remember this is not a nice fic and I do love Bucky, I just also happen to want to put him through shit.
> 
> And yes I know this chapter is slow...hence slow burn...but I'm seriously trying to be better on that. Seriously. I am. Though I think a part of me likes to tease with these almost snippet-like chapters....
> 
> ENJOY!

They did not return him to his dark cell. Instead he was left hanging from his one good arm, with bruises that bled from too many hits that broke the skin on his cheek, brow, and nose. He’d bitten the inside of his mouth and sported a split on his bottom lip that ran inside enough that the top of his bottom front teeth scraped the start of it. The silence was both a relief and damning. In it the chains creaked, his shoes scuffed and his breathing echoed despite him not panting. His ears strained to detect anything past it, but they really truly left him alone. It didn’t mean he still didn’t feel eyes on him. Making no sense to his jostled brain. Bucky was taking a page out Steve Rogers’ book, just like he did in Azzano. He knew that if Steve were actually there he’d be giving him flack. As if to say, “So it’s okay if you seek a fight but not me?”

“Gotta change it up sometimes, eh Stevie?” he slurred quietly, wincing at all the hurt in his face.

Bucky hung his head, looking down the line of his body. Spots of drying crimson on the white t-shirt, sweat soaking his armpit and his back when they’d continued shocking him with the pronged stick. It showed him that their technology extended beyond just firepower and the ability to create a new mechanical arm. Ingenuity. If he wasn’t essentially being tortured he might have admired their advancements. A repeated thought he swore he already had. His stomach rolled at the sudden wave of nausea. When was the last time he’d eaten? Had something to drink? The IV would have kept him nourished while heavily drugged as he healed, but he could definitely go for a sandwich or even rations. He nearly shuddered. The last time he wished for that he’d been under Zola’s hands. He’d just gotten used to having food again, so it meant that he would need to remember the days that it was scarce. Hydra chapter one and even back in Brooklyn up until he was drafted.

“Nothing you haven’t handled before,” Steve came into view.

Not the Captain America, big, muscular man that he still hadn’t gotten used to but the sick and small Steve. Bucky’s eyes saddened at the image. The hallucinations were starting earlier. His heart fluttered and he cleared his throat, avoiding the visage of his now dead friend. To be honest, they hadn’t ever really gone away had they? Now that he thought about it. At night when they would take shifts in looking out, camping under the stars in woods on a mission to destroy encampments, Bucky would see him. Small Steve on the other side of the fire, hunched and stoking at the flames with a stick trying to be tough out in the creeping cold. Walking beside him when they set out or lying next to him where he was perched from afar looking through the scope. Every moment since he’d been the one to fall down with pneumonia in captivity, Steve had been there without knowing he’d been.

He learned to ignore him and not talk back, resorting to facial expressions that had the real Steve or others asking if he was alright. He couldn’t tell them. If he did, they would send him home. No, he had to remain so he could protect Steve. Seeing him so clearly now, Bucky hadn’t realized he’d been in and out. Fuzzy almost. Chances were he’d been hit hard enough and too many times in one sitting that sharpened the ghost…or maybe, knowing that he was gone from the world, summoned him somehow? “My turn to be here for ya Buck,” Steve said, running the toe of his shoe that desperately needed to be replaced on the grate.

“Well I don’t need ya,” he exhaled. The wide eyed look that took over Steve’s face kicked him in the gut, a worse wound than any man could ever give him. Quickly he added, “I don’t need ya to see me like this. To see what is to come.”

Steve sighed and nodded in understanding, coming closer he raised his head and looked up. Bucky knew he wanted to reach up and clean the cuts, like all the times they did for each other after Bucky saved him from getting beaten to a pulp. Both walking away roughened, yet smiling. “But isn’t that a good reason for why you need me? If I’m not here, then they’ll get you and you have to live. _Stay you_.”

Bucky’s breath shook out of him and he shut his eyes. “I’m not giving up. Couldn’t even if I wanted to, not with you always over my shoulder. Punk.”

When he opened his eyes Steve was nowhere. Hallucination or not, it didn’t make him any less right. The sound of footsteps drawing nearer in the darkness signaled the soldiers return, the one determined to have Bucky call him ‘handler’ trailing in last. Had so much time already gone past or merely any at all? In trying to figure that out he missed the same question that had been asked of him since he’d been strung up. The hit came to his thigh rather than his face. Changing up their main focus it seemed. After each hit to his thighs he’d be asked the question. Some instances nothing would be said and the shock was administered to his ribs. Bucky didn’t bother with repeating his customary reply and neither did he make eye contact. Further infuriating the handler.

A hand gripped his chin and he grunted at the disturbance of the split in his lip. The handler snapped fingers with his other hand to someone behind him and a knife was produced. Bringing the blade point under his left eye, glinting in the light above him, he zoned in on it nervously. “You are nothing better than a dog misbehaving its new master. You Americans think you are so tough. I have broken far stupider men than you and they all cried for mercy in the end. Tell me soldier…can you heal anything that which has not been torn from you?”

The blade slowly rose, cutting upwards dragging over cheek, eyeball, lid and brow. Bucky’s body tensed, unable to move his head out of the grasp and not sure he even wanted to in case that caused more damage. Blood filled his vision, unfocused and painful, he shut it as if to help. Temporarily blind in one eye, the sensation of blood and tears running down his tender face, his scream filled the room. The blade was placed under his right eye next but did not move. He felt extremely light headed and drifted in and out in the explosive waves hitting his consciousness. Telling him that he needed medical attention fast otherwise risk losing his sight or worse the eye. Fingers bore into his jaw and he went to the blade again. It must’ve been the wrong thing as it moved up and this time he did pass out.

Jerking back to wakefulness from the shocks, tainted tears leaking from corners that he couldn’t open his eyes. That he couldn’t see. The blade was wiped across his stomach, flat and methodical to clean before the handler sheathed it in the back of his waistband. Tilting his head in contemplation, the handler motioned for the men to take him down from the hook. Serving a swift punch to the gut once just off, no one dared catch Bucky as he dropped to the concrete. The handler leaned over the bloodied and blind pathetic human chosen to be their tool, puckering his lips before spitting down onto him. The glob landing in his hair at his temple. A return gift for the spit upon his shoe two hours prior. “If your eyes heal, I expect my face to be the first they see.”

Ordered to be taken back to his cell, he was thrown inside to be abandoned in the darkness. The dark never bothered him before but being unable to see, even a fraction, sent his heart into overdrive. His breathing grated on his ears, along with the shuddering sound his throat attempted to make. Bucky was a puddle of pain from his face to his thighs. Not able to find a bucket of any kind for bathroom purposes, he wound up vomiting what little he had in his system and scooting tiredly away from it as not to get it on him. Bucky shut down after his back hit one of the walls, his brain having had enough of his mess he’d gotten himself into. He knew that fighting back resulted in correction and that was how it was during basic training for any soldier learning their place. Learning that it wasn’t just them that mattered anymore. One wrong move and everyone could die. This time, it _was_ just Bucky. He could afford to be selfish. He was tired of playing dead after the first instance. But the first time they hadn’t gone this far. Not even the second time. Fighting back didn’t mean necessarily throwing punches. It meant being defiant on a new level, even for him.

Bucky hoped that his defiance wouldn’t cost him the chance to see, but if he never saw that ugly mug again it would be worth it. If they decided that he was too much of a hassle and too broken from all the beatings—in some miracle he didn’t heal like he knew he would—then it was worth it. In his dream he sat on the floor, against the kitchen window at Steve’s place. Bucky seconds from finally succeeding in his efforts to wear him down in moving in together, after giving him the freedom to try and take care of himself since Sarah died. Plans to find a new place, cheaper, made. They were watching the sunset, not the best view but it worked for what they needed. A release of emotion, letting go of the home that death and illness had permeated. The colors calming. This dream was a memory disguised as another version of a hallucination. Steve stared at Bucky, looking concerned.

“For all your reasons, are you sure it is really worth it?” Steve hinted to his eyes, in the dream unmarred.

Bucky picked at the loose thread on his trousers and rested his chin on his arm propped on the low sill. He had no answer for his friend and instead avoided the topic entirely, going back to what had really happened in this moment. “How many times do you think I can get you to ride the Cyclone without puking? I still believe the more we try, the more you’ll get used to it. Like riding a bike or going on a boat. Gotta get your sea legs.”

Steve shoved him and they both smiled. It had to be worth it. No matter if his body gave out before he could get himself out. He refused to let them get what they wanted out of him. Not one ounce…like he told Steve, he just had to get his sea legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what do you think? I had to do some research about a ruptured globe (eye) and let me tell you, the images made my stomach roll more than what I was seeing in my head. Google just made it worse people, but in the name of research you do what you gotta do. Also, it might not be entirely accurate as I am not a medical professional and to try and word the questions I had through google was difficult and I'm sure a red flag to someone out there...just be aware that I do not know for sure if that is what would happen if a knife were to slice into someone's eyeball like how it was for Bucky.
> 
> This is strictly fiction. Not everything can be 100%.
> 
> Oh and I am not sure if Bucky and Steve really did move in together, I know that is something I've read multiple times in people's stories. So don't know if that is head canon or actual canon but I'm going to go with it (or hint at the possibility of it) since I kind of like it too.
> 
> And if I repeat how Bucky thinks/feels at times, I apologize. I'm trying to keep track of what I have mentioned but at the same time I am just writing what Bucky gives me. *shrugs*
> 
> Anyways, kudos and comments appreciated as I've said before they fuel my writing despite posts being random. :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! This took me a bit to get in the mood to do to be honest (considering it is now October). I've been all over the board with stuff but I'm here once more. Thank you all for sticking with this story, despite the random updates and slow burn. But it is here. More of the story. I also made sure to add more goodies than I have been previously. I actually had to ask my friend what to do in terms of adding more or leaving you all hanging, in the end I added more because my anxiety talked me into it.
> 
> I apologize if any find this too slow for your liking, I am trying to show that not every moment is physical stuff being done to him to break him down. That torture is in fact actually a 'slow burn' type deal. And Bucky has already been suffering from PTSD from Azzano that hasn't been dealt with. All that coming to the front in terms of hallucinations and going away in his mind. I also want to apologize if the chapters are too short, I know other authors tend to write more than what I do per chapter but though intriguing to delve into this it is also somewhat taxing. None of this has been mentioned to me, just so you know. This is ALL my anxiety overthinking things but I wanted to get that out of the way first.
> 
> Without further adieu, here is the next installment. Enjoy! :)

Bucky flinched at the squeak of a metal hinge lifting, the scraping of the food tray being pushed in. He’d slept with his eyes open, the lids cut and the fact that they were so red and puffy he couldn’t have closed them if he tried at the time. He felt the dryness of them like someone rolled it in sand, the blood and pus having crusted over. Though on mental assessment the swelling had gone done and his lids were healed enough after sleeping some hours that he could blink over all the gunk. In the end he decided to keep them closed, not wanting to prolong _that_ pain. Not like he could see anyways. Bucky took a deep inhale and immediately wanted to gag, the sour vomit hitting his acid burned throat from when he’d emptied his stomach. Deciding to breathe from his mouth rather than his nose, he rose up into a sitting position. The vomit was somewhere in front of him, how far he didn’t know and the food had come from the right. He was relieved that his face and thighs no longer hurt to high heaven, more of a dull ache as if he’d been slapped rather than beaten. So when he managed to maneuver onto his right side—the disabled arm causing some difficulty and discomfort—making sure to keep his flesh arm close to the wall to help guide and stabilize him he crawled until he met the corner and then followed it to the left. His hand smoothed carefully on the concrete flooring and at the sudden touch of metal he stopped. Retreating his touch he let out a shaky breath.

_‘It’s only a food tray. Not a grenade or land mine…not a body…’_ he thought.

He tucked his legs under him and sat against the wall, hand reaching for the item until he found the lip and got a good enough grasp to place it in his lap. Bucky wished he could see what it was they gave him, not to assess if it was poisoned or not because realistically they didn’t want to get rid of him. Then again, he wouldn’t put it past them to see how he reacted to chemicals and see if he could recoup. Were they willing to risk their new toy for scientific curiosity? Maybe. They certainly had no qualms with what he’d been through so far. Bucky slowly put the tray back down, pushing it away despite the grumbling void in his stomach. His right hand rested on the upset surface to comfort it. Technically he’d had worse. Not eating much or at all if money was tight with the bills and medicine when Steve and him moved into their smaller apartment, as close to a doctor and drugstore they could find. Somedays it was bread softened with hot water and salt to make it edible, if they were lucky they had hot dogs and potatoes or even broth with fresh bread, then the other times when all Bucky could do was give Steve the better ration…leaving Bucky to choke down a mixture of flour and water that left him dissatisfied but full. At least Steve would be taken care of. At least Steve would make it through that one really cold night with proper food in his belly.

Yes. Bucky wouldn’t touch a morsel until he could better inspect it, if he could see again. The click and crackle tore a startled gasp from him, heart beat in his chest like a drum and his head lifted. He tilted it this way and that to figure out where it was coming from, knowing it was somewhere in the ceiling. The scratch of a needle on a record too familiar for one to say they didn’t know nowadays was next and words filtered into the room. Words spoken at first in German, then Russian, French and others he didn’t know. It didn’t matter, they all said the same thing. “Hail Hydra.” His face scrunched up in distaste, making his eyes hurt from the action so instead he hardened his jaw and pressed his lips into a thin line. They were trying to use new tactics to break him down. Filtering audio into his cell with repetitive words no matter that it wasn’t always understandable. The message was clear. Bucky brought his legs up, bending them so his elbow could rest on his knee…he tilted his chin down in realization that he forgot he couldn’t cover both of his ears. He tried to press his left ear to his shoulder but that was futile. It wasn’t soft skin and he couldn’t shrug it up to get that perfect angle. The arm was too heavy.

No relief. None.

Bucky’s legs slid out in front of him, opening slightly as his right hand flopped onto his lap. He tried to imagine that he wasn’t where he was right now, that he wasn’t hearing the salute of an organization that sought to change the world through decimation of the many. Instead he imagined that he was thirteen again, playing hide and seek with twelve year old Steve. A punk that he had met getting pummeled by bullies while still trying to fight back. He shook his head with a soft exhale of exasperation. His brain attempted to fool himself into thinking that he was in Steve’s closet in the dark, one of the many times he stayed over to hang out on a weekend or during a school week if his Ma would let him. He could almost hear Steve counting to twenty because he counted too fast when it was just ten. Sure, the apartment wasn’t big but he wanted the opportunity to find a good spot since Sarah’s room was off limits. Had to respect Steve’s mom. He thumbed the fabric of the military pants and winced, trying to excuse it for a sock or a shirt that lay on the floor of the closet. How many times had his mom told him to clean it and kept putting it off because he’d drown into his next drawing? Unable to get the shading or lines just right. That is what Steve always told him.

Steve kept counting, fumbling over the numbers in his excitement until he forgot what number he was on or began to cough. Times like that Bucky would wait for a minute to see if he got it under control and start over again, or he would help him out when a couple of curses slipped from his mouth and Bucky shouted the next number. Of course he could have moved his position when he did that, but he didn’t want him getting all worked up in trying to find him and having an asthma attack. Like the record repeated, he kept Steve counting. Seeing how high of a number he could start at and work his way down to. He was sharp as a tack in school with his eidetic memory, but his grades could have been better. Just easily distracted, always sick or too beat up. It helped to have Bucky in his life…at least that is what everyone said, even Steve. James Barnes did average in school. Not great, not fantastic, just ordinary and that was fine with him. So he would always bring homework to _‘your friend, that nice Rogers boy’_ and make sure he got it done so he could turn around and take it back. He found that Steve did wonders with motivation and someone constantly cheering him on. Checking on him.

They’d be at either of their houses sitting in their rooms or at the kitchen table and Bucky would hoard the drawing paper and tools of the trade right beside him. Each time Steve would lift his eyes to stare longingly at the items or comment about how the light was _just_ right, Bucky would nudge his foot and mumble to get back to work. The light would still be fine if not better when they were done. Buck’s mouth lifted up when he remembered that his punishment for holding it all hostage was to sit still for Steve to draw. Not that he complained…well…he joked. The guy was an excellent artist and he was always eager to see the end result, sometimes having to snatch it from Steve’s grasp when he said it wasn’t good. It was amazing. Every time. The sound of the needle on dead air brought him out of his reverie. Finding that while his internal Steve was counting he’d gone elsewhere. A hopeful exhale from his parted lips left him. He tensed at the hinge of the door flap opening, checking to see if he’d touched his food. Grumbling came and an order was relayed to start _it_ again. The needle was rearranged on the audio and crackled before the voices returned.

***

Ten times.

Each one he still didn’t eat and struggled to return to what he’d imagined during the first. He resorted to saying his own repeating phrases, getting louder as the next round started. Bucky thumped his head over and over, having to stop when he wanted to bash harder than the barely there thud. At one point he kicked out and managed to connect with the food tray, knowing he decorated the floor, his shoe and his pants in the process. But it was grating on his nerves. They would play it through, check the tray and where he was sitting and do it again. It was constant, so constant that he made sure to keep track of how many times. Ten. Fucking ten. Bucky slumped against the wall by the door, never moving away because there was nowhere he could go to lessen what he heard. He still couldn’t see and there was now food on the floor along with the vomit. His cell stunk. A lock unlatching had his breathing pick up, yet he did not move. His throat and mouth were dry from speaking to drown it all out with no success. He had to do what he could though to make it bearable…at least a little, when it absolutely was not.

No one grabbed him, instead a set of boots entered and turned. He could practically feel their eyes on him, assessing the space. Him. The handler stared down at the soldier, lesser men would have cracked long before now. Questions of how high his tolerance for physical pain and mental prodding were, filtered in his head. Planning. Nodding at the two guarding the door he motioned for them to pick the man up and hold him to the wall. It brought him immense pleasure to see the soldier try and fight. Not bad for someone who was as blind as he was and lacking a functioning limb. Coming up to him, the handler Bernhard, stood toe to toe and removed a flashlight from one of the guard’s belts. Bernhard turned it on and shown it at Bucky’s face noticing the healed eyelids. Inching closer that he tensed, a hint of fear at not knowing what he was going to do made Bernhard smirk briefly. His fingers went to an eye. Bucky jumped and tried to wriggle free, the hold of the guards barely enough. A punch landed in his gut to settle him, forcing him straight and the fingers returned. The eye was pried open.

The light as close as it was did nothing to register he even saw it, the only reaction the pain from having his healing eye opened. It was actually quite fascinating to see how the organ began to mend itself. Checking the other one it was in the same state of repair. If anything he would be completely healed given another day. Bernhard released and watched Bucky squeeze them shut again, a tear falling down his cheek. He wiped his hand on Bucky’s shirt, grimacing at the discharge he’d touched in his checkup. An exhale left him as he came to a decision of what to do next. Essentially he had free rein but a timetable to implement his methods. If they didn’t work he would be reevaluated and removed. Terminated. Ordering the guards to take him back to the chamber, Bernhard took one last look at the cell and sneered. “And get someone to clean up this mess,” he growled, storming out with the others following not far behind.

He led them to the left wall far into the giant chamber pulling a cord for the lightbulb over a bolted chair, he watched dispassionately as they bound him with leather cuffs first and chains last. No getting away. The chair sturdier than most, reclined a fraction and had panels out to the sides for his arms but only one would be utilized. The hook from before hung above and his left arm chained to it, once more adding a twist to his spine to remind him of the way it was anchored into him. His legs were secured in a normal sitting position, spread to line up with the legs of the chair like splints. It left Bucky’s crotch exposed and torso stretched. Bernhard went to the head of the chair to crouch and grip the man’s chin. If only he could look at him or better yet, see himself. Bucky refused to open his damaged eyes, his chest rising and falling as he breathed through the pain of the position and the bruising fingers.

“You didn’t eat soldier. I gave you so many chances too and yet you would rather starve. The good doctor’s reports spoke of a man that was all too eager to eat. Never turned down a meal. Always thankful for what he’d been given,” he paused in thought. “Not even a thanks to your master’s. We gave you the words to say and you ignored them. Spoke your nonsense mantra.” Standing up he released Bucky and went over to a small table.

A bowl holding dog tags with James Buchanan Barnes’ information engraved on them nestled inside, a Bunsen burner, matches and tongs beside that in a nice neat line. Taking up the box of matches he removed one and struck it. The small clink of chains told him that Bucky flinched at the sound and the corner of his lips turned up. Rotating the valve to the gas of the burner, he lit it and adjusted to his liking. He shook the burnt stick and set it aside, reaching next for the tongs and pinching one of the two tags removed of the necklace bit and placed it in the heat. It wasn’t nearly as fun to do this task when the person was unaware but Bernhard still found the joy warming up his insides that the anxiety seemed to be tenfold. The trick with heating up the material it was made out of was that it could melt easily, so he got it right to the point that he desired before that could happen and removed a handkerchief from his trousers.

Walking back over to the bound man, he pressed with as much force as he could muster on Bucky’s bottom jaw. “Time to eat those words.” The burning item dropped into his mouth. Quickly he covered and held his mouth shut, the handkerchief protecting from any bites or attempts to spit out.

Bucky’s screams tore his vocal chords, tongue desperately working to detach it from where it stuck to the muscle and roof of his mouth. It seared and cooked. He tried to shake his head and get out of the chair to no avail. The tip of the still hot tongs rested at the center of his arched throat and he felt bile burn in his esophagus, yet nothing came of it as he continued to strain against the bindings and strong hand. Bucky shuddered, sweat soaked his clothes and he felt dazed. His lips were coaxed open and the tongs peeled the tag off his tongue taking bits and pieces before clanking back into the small bowl. Bernhard turned the burner down but not off, and stood staring at Bucky trying to stay conscious. Maybe once wasn’t enough to get the message through. Especially if he could still hear small sounds as he exhaled that wasn’t just breath. No…the second tag would have to be done. Turning back around, he adjusted the flame and prepared the next one. The guard down the hall cleaning up the vomit and food rose his shoulders to his ears, the sound sending chills down his spine. He’d heard men scream before, but never like _that_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos give me life! ;) Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

He’d passed out at some point. He didn’t know when or how many rounds after the same two bits of his tags were done being administered until they’d ripped off more skin when it happened. Until all he could taste was ash and burned meat…until he couldn’t taste anything seconds later. Bucky awakened to the voices on the audio track, louder now that it was filtered into the chamber. Proving that no matter where they held him that they had thought ahead. Wherever he was, was made specifically for _him_ or someone like him. He was still bound in the chair having not been moved other than to have his arm released from the hook. It hung limply off the chair rather than secured on the side plank like his flesh one. Adding a new angle of weight straining from his collarbone and chest rather than his back and spine. His breathing picked up and he winced, his throat sore on top of his mouth but otherwise not as bad as he would have expected. How long had he been out? Deciding to test his eyes he fluttered them open, waiting for the pain that followed the last time but this time it was dull.

If asked what he could see, the only way he could describe it would be that it was less dark. The void of pitch lightened enough that it wasn’t unbearable. Lonely. He swallowed and tilted his head down and in at the action, lids half closing. They opened more when he realized why it seemed not so bad. Bucky tilted his head back to the position it had been in and tried again to recreate what he thought he _saw_. There was dark and then not as dark. Each little barely there shake of his head and he could tell that he hadn’t imagined it. He was seeing the streams light from the bulb hanging above him, but he still couldn’t _see_ it. Like a shadow constantly moving in and out of view. His jaw tightened, right fist clenched and toes curled in his boots. The leather and chain restraints creaking and clinking from the flexed muscles. Bucky wondered if he could try and get out of them. Without his sight, his already enhanced hearing doubled in efforts to pick up on every single thing. It reminded him that Steve’s hearing had gotten better after what the scientists did to him. That he too could hear ten times better on top of the pre-existing upgrade due to his injury. All while his fast healing worked overtime to return him to his new baseline. Maybe…would Steve be faster? Better?

Bucky wasn’t an idiot, whatever Zola had done to him was most likely a knockoff of Steve’s transformation. Countries competing to replicate and outdo each other no matter if it was science, weaponry, a way of life, or battle strategies. That thought had him realize he included only one normal thing out of four. War skewed his mind. What he’d been through had taken tiny fragments but he was determined to not have any more chipped away. He was on his way to seeing again and if he was a version of Steve…without the muscles and American good ol’ boy attitude, then maybe he was strong enough to get out of the bindings? Out of the chair? With one arm…He mentally cursed himself. The sheer weight of the turned off limb would slow him down. Bucky didn’t know how to turn it back on and there was also the fact that he hadn’t eaten since the day before the surgery.

_‘It’s been that long?_ ’ he thought.

Just how long had they had him after that? After he learned of their true nature and intentions, that he had killed the doctor that had worked an entire year to try and gain his trust? He knew that he hadn’t failed, the doctor had half succeeded. Bucky ate the food, took the clothes, complied with the rules, took the damn arm and his word that Steve would be coming once the surgery was complete. Once he was better. His thoughts crumbled when he realized he had convinced himself that any moment, any sign he saw that didn’t add up he would be out of there. But weren’t there many signs? What about the red flags he’d detected? The words from the record slammed his heightened sense of hearing and the feeling of anxiety, that had become all too familiar from the burning in his veins back on the table, rose. The anxiety of every footfall outside tents, whispered words rippling into a muffled laugh, or the crackle of the campfire with the Howlies. It rose in his gut up to his chest. He _let_ them keep him. He _let_ them keep telling him lies he knew weren’t true because he was being taken care of. Because in the end it was different than Azzano. Bucky’s eyes fluttered closed, not wanting to see the brief glimmer of hope that his sight was slowly returning. He didn’t deserve it.

_“Don’t talk about yourself that way. That’s my friend you are hurting.”_

He swore he could feel Steve’s small bony hand touch his clothed chest. The punk was using his own words against him. Back whenever Steve would get too sick or down in the dumps because all the dates Bucky set him up on would rather be with Bucky than him. The last bout of self-flagellation in the form of words had been when they were living together and not long after Steve threw a stink about how he was useless, that he couldn’t even live on his own or hold down a normal job without his body getting in the way. His health. He’d snapped at his friend, not wanting to hear Steve talk like that anymore. It hurt him beyond words how he bullied himself worse than the bullies that picked on him. Those bullies he had no qualms of fighting in order to prove them wrong. Now Steve was there…or no…he wasn’t there…another trick of his mind that he’d gotten used to the first time things got darker than dark. Darker than lack of sight. Bucky wished he could have told Steve that it wasn’t the same and he would have too if he could talk. If he hadn’t screamed his voice away and had his mouth burned from being stubborn.

_“See? You didn’t_ **let** _anyone do anything Buck. You survived at every turn. You didn’t tell them nothin’. You had your guard up. You do know it is okay that you survived right? I would always want you to survive even if I couldn’t.”_ What he thought was breath hit his left ear was most likely circulating air in the massive space, his brain continued by imagining that Steve was sitting on a stool and had leaned in to whisper to him. _“I’m not going anywhere. I’m always going to be here to remind you to keep fighting. Because you haven’t given in. You haven’t_ **let** _them_ **in**. _Til the end of the damn line...”_

Bucky slowly nodded and tried to lean into the imaginary touch of his best friend that for survival’s sake he would swear up and down that he could feel. Silently repeating their promise to each other, the promise that he didn’t get to keep…that he would make sure to keep by getting out of there. By getting through everything they threw out him. Bucky noticed then that the record had stopped playing and footsteps sounded on the concrete from afar, coming as closer and entering the massive chamber. Closer still until something scraped and settled by his right side. A metal tray was set on the table. Bernhard grabbed the spoon and began to whistle a tune as he mashed and stirred everything on the plate into one disgusting colored pile of slop. Scooping up a bite he brought it to Bucky’s face, circling it for him to sniff at the food and drawing away to watch him react. Bucky’s stomach clenched and nearly growled from the smell of food, regardless of how it actually smelled. It was warm and he was being offered it. That was all that his stomach cared about.

“Are you hungry soldier? Will you eat or will you bite the hand that feeds you once more?”

Steve had told him to keep fighting. He knew that the human body could live without food for some time, he’d seen it and lived it on the field. Water was another demon entirely. If he denied the food, would he get the water? If he accepted the food, did that mean anything? He knew the answer to the last was a huge yes, his handler would take it as a success. Bucky almost wanted to scream in frustration but in the end he decided against the offering. If they really needed him and wanted him to stay alive, they would have to shove it down his fucking throat or stick a needle in him like Zola did. He breathed a few times, steeling himself on his decision and finally turned his face away. The spoon was dropped unceremoniously onto the tray, Bernhard nodded. He had hoped that the soldier would have seen the error of his ways but he was by no means surprised at his refusal. Clearly the soldier was a glutton for punishment.

Moving the table with the tray he leaned over Bucky and gripped his jaw with both hands, pressing his pads of his fingers bruisingly into the hinge of it until he opened his mouth from the pressure. Inside his mouth was scarred with angry patches of black and red tissue, some spots still raw and revolting in their attempt to catch up in the healing process. The handler’s eyes ticked to the dry flaking cracked lips of the man and straightened. He mentally ticked through how many days it’d been that they had him and landed his sights on the other items on the tray. A slow grin spread on his face as he released and moved to the crown of the man’s head, finding the strap meant to go over the forehead to prevent further movement and securing it. He came back to the table and took up the thick cloth napkin, taking care to unfold it and dab it in the glass of water to dampen, interested in how Bucky’s features moved in his attempts to figure out just what he was hearing.

Bucky jerked against the restraints when cloth draped over his face. He’d heard from one of the many men back in the cages just what kind of torture was done to soldiers to extract information. That made them admit to anything whether they had done something or not. Horror stories that scared but served to prepare them for the worst in case it was chosen. The damp cloth and the hit of the water being poured right where his nose was forced him to open his mouth to breathe and then water was poured slightly lower. What had the method of torture been called? Bucky struggled to swallow through the pain of his injuries and choked instantly when it didn’t go down smoothly. The cloth seemed to suction, creating a wet seal that could only be broken by coughing out the water. It only helped for a moment before sealing over his mouth and nostrils again. An order for pitchers of water to be brought in once the glass ran out had him gasping and coughing. For only a small amount of water it felt like it never ended coming from the glass.

_“It’s their way of simulating drowning…time loses all meaning…they call it waterboarding.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more I am not a medical professional, so the healing process of the burns Bucky has received is most likely entirely inaccurate but this is fiction so...I'm going by what I see in my brain on what it looks like to me as I write. Same goes for the waterboarding. Hitting the research hard to be as close as possible.
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *guilty look* It's been since October since I've updated this. I did say updates would be random, but whoa NOT by that much. I apologize. Life really, truly, got in the way. Not only was I in a major writer's block, but anxiety and things going on with friends/family that I'm not going to talk about. But, my writer's block has officially lifted and been lifted for 2 weeks tomorrow. I'm still going to keep this story as one that has random updates. I'm sorry I can't give you more a definitive one, it is exhausting to not only get into this state of mind but to stay in it and write it for long lengths of time.
> 
> Book is still a priority, but I've also found myself in the last 2 weeks dragged back into wanting to write fanfiction again. This time, MCU. Beyond this story. Thanks to the Discord group I joined and Nela. And, yeah. Without further adieu. Here is Chapter 9.

He coughed and choked, the water gurgling in his mouth, burning in his throat and lungs where it’d gone down his windpipe. Limbs thrashed in the bindings, the chain rattled and the arm tugged. Nothing dislodged the cloth napkin on his face or allowed his head to turn to dispel the fluid. If the sounds he made along with the struggle seemed to slow or have a longer delay in between, the water would back off. When the cloth was dragged off his face he blinked red rimmed eyes from the tears he’d long since shed. He couldn’t say he was lacking hydration and he jokingly tried to make light of the situation by mentally voicing to Steve that that guy needed to go back to their mother, to learn how to help someone with a glass of water. Bucky was not only soaked from chin to belly button, where it had slowly crept with each sputter, but his bladder ached from what he had managed to swallow.

The excess dripped off him onto the concrete floor, the drains in it clearly doing their jobs at avoiding the formation of puddles. A hint of iron tainted the liquid that he was forced to swallow, before the head strap was undone. Bucky tried to steel himself in not wanting to throw up once his head was free, but his stomach had other plans as he turned into the natural twist they’d forced his body into, in how he was bound, and released the remainder of the water he hadn’t been able to down. It didn’t even clear his right shoulder and the action itself was so violent that he couldn’t stop his dick from leaking the piss from his too full bladder. Once started it wouldn’t stop till his trousers were drenched in warm urine. He coughed and coughed before groaning, letting his body sag slightly. Bucky winced at the reminder of his mechanical arm. A cold wet cloth dabbed at his forehead and mouth in mock care, and he knew from the texture of it that it was the same one that had been used to torture him seconds ago.

Bucky tried to jerk his head away from the attention, not wanting it. Making him feel like he was a baby bird that needed mothering and that was the last thing he appreciated, especially after being tortured. Bernhard exhaled from his nostrils, walking around the vomit that really wasn’t anything beyond water, hints of blood, and pieces of black from earlier. He let the cloth land on the metal tray with a heavy wet slap before he eyed the pitchers. The smell of urine made his nostrils flare and his lips scrunch up in distaste. Twice the soldier had emptied his stomach and now the man pissed himself, showing that he soiled every place he vacated. Bernhard supposed he couldn’t fault the soldier entirely, he’d heard and even seen from experience that this is what soldiers from overseas did. He’d simply have to train the behavior out of him. Motioning to one of the men stationed in the room to hand over his handkerchief, Bernhard noticed the initials stitched into one corner and rolled his unamused eyes at the man. Personal effects were not welcome there.

A plan to remind himself to scold him later, he folded it into a half triangle to afford the most material possible. Wrapping the tip of the triangle over and over until he had the desired thickness and set it aside. The abandoned wet cloth was taken up, wrung out and balled up neatly. Bucky, once more, was left to wonder at the sounds before his jaw was forced open again and instead of an inspection, the balled cloth was shoved into his mouth. A harsh shout for someone to hold it in his mouth came while he gagged and struggled to remove it, reminding himself to breathe through his nose through the panic. Within seconds the hand was removed and another cloth-like material took its place to wrap around and tie behind his head. Bucky blinked unseeingly, trying hard to focus on breathing so as not to hyperventilate. A pat on his head had him grunt and then growl, biting down on the cloth in his mouth and doing his best to glare at the man whether he still stood there or not.

“This is to help you. If you feel the need to vomit again, you will swallow it and learn control,” Bernhard explained. “As for urination. I am afraid that is a lesson for later.”

Before the sounds of retreating, the record on the speaker began to play again. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and ground his teeth into the cloth more. He didn’t want to admit how much it grated on his nerves to hear it repeating over and over again, but it did. What was worse was that it echoed more in the bigger room than in his cell. The lack of sight enhanced his hearing so that he heard it reverberate from the furthest wall, even while another language was already being spoken. His fingers of his right hand curled into his palm. The nails cut into the skin, giving him another point of focus beyond his breathing in order to distract him. He wasn’t aware of how much time passed with the needle returning to the start, playing through the mess of words each round. Not until it stopped…but the speaker did not turn off.

“Bucky?”

Opening his eyes, the variants of objects’ shadows still all he could see in the dark that was his sightlessness, he snapped his head up to where the voice had come through the speaker. “Steve?” his muffled voice asked.

“Bucky? If you are here, I’m coming to get you. Just hold on tight alright?”

The sound of faint shouts came through the speaker before it turned off completely, causing Bucky to struggle more in his bindings. The chair and chains rattled and he shouted into the gag. Steve was there to save him. Steve wasn’t dead after all. Steve had found him. Steve…Steve...a body thudded into the room and boots ran on concrete to slide to a stop beside where he lay. Hands frantically moved over him, taking in any injuries. But why wasn’t he breaking him out? Why wasn’t he being unbound and helped to speak? Damn it, Bucky wished he could see to know what was going on with Steve and why he wasn’t helping him. He questioningly voiced the muffled name of his best friend, wanting to make a bad joke about how he wasn’t getting any younger and wanted to get the Hell out of there before he died of old age. If only…

“I’m sorry Buck…I can’t…”

The words made his throat tighten and saliva surge upwards. What did he mean he couldn’t? Of course he could, Bucky was right there and so was Steve. He did it before, why couldn’t he do it again? Simple as one, two, three. Bucky jerked on the chair. Chest rising and falling as his breathing tried to pick up with the emotion threatening to take over his being.

“Whatever they did to you…you aren’t even worth saving. You are _theirs_ now. I can’t—I’m sorry Buck, but I have to leave you behind,” Steve’s voice was getting further away, as if he was backing up in horror from where Bucky remained.

Shaking his head, Bucky blinked at the tears building up in his eyes and he swallowed thickly. Desperately, he fought through the gag to yell unintelligible words, “Steve. Don’t. Steve. Please, come back. Steve. STEVE!”

The footsteps ran, they fucking ran away. Abandoned, he’d been abandoned. Bucky wanted to throw up, he wanted to but the damn gag...no, he wanted to scream. So he did. He screamed out all his pain and anger, until he woke up blinking at the haze of colors that were blurred. Shapes could be seen, but not enough to make up what it was he was seeing. A sign that his sight was nearing its full return. His ears picked up the fact that the speakers were still playing the looped record, letting him know that what all he had experienced had been nothing but a nightmare. A _really_ bad one. Steve hadn’t come to rescue him. Steve hadn’t found him and decided he wasn’t worth saving. Hadn’t taken one look at him on that chair, with his new strung up arm, and seen the horror that he was being shaped into a monster. Or at least the attempt was there. Bucky wouldn’t let the dream determine the outcome. He wouldn’t let them win. He had to remember what Stevie had said to him before the waterworks. Even if the dream shook him to his core and remained with him for…god knew how many hours he was laying there alone. Nothing but a dream.

***

He noticed a difference in his sight, in however many rounds of the record they played. He’d long since lost track. Feeling like they were mocking him from when he’d spoken all those times, his mantra. This was theirs. The one they lived and died by, with pride and a capsule cracked between teeth. It was enough that it made Bucky wish that he almost had his hearing taken from him, rather than sight. _Nearly_ wished…Then again, he knew that it was too early to tell in terms of what they would and wouldn’t do. They must’ve been monitoring him from cameras because true to the man’s word, he was suddenly standing right beside him. The first thing he actually was able to _see_. “Hello soldier. It is nice to see some life in those eyes,” Bernhard commented, a patronizing smile on his face.

Bucky breathed through his nose somewhat heavily. He wasn’t prepared for the chair to crank upright and the chain holding his arm up to lift higher at the new angle. The sudden motion and strain disoriented him, after having lain down for hours. One thing he could be grateful for was the speakers had shut off, giving him a small sense of respite…even if the other activities were going to start back up again. The pain in his jaw hurt more once gravity made an appearance, the gag stretching it uncomfortably and even going so far as chaffing the corners of his mouth. Dazedly, he looked around as best he could with the strap across his forehead. Still only able to see what was lit by the light above and over in the center of the room, where his sight had been taken from him. His ‘handler’ came before him, just as they were bringing in what looked to be a portable cloth screen and a rolling projector.

“Now that you have your sight returned to you, I think it is time we commence with administering the visual aids of your training.”

Furrowing his brows and squinting damn near uncontrollably, Bucky couldn’t help the panic clutching his heart. What were they going to show him? What was he going to see? He’d only just got his vision back and immediately that recovered sense was to be assaulted. He jerked in the bindings, teeth clenching down on the gag, huffing out around it and through his mouth now. The action triggered his reflex, as the handkerchief brushed firmly on his uvula. Tears sprung to his eyes, coughing and retching. Any saliva or water in his system hitting the material to soak and choke in his throat. He had no choice but to swallow and focus on breathing through his nose once more.

“Eager for the show to start soldier?” the question came soon after.

All attempts to shake his head were futile. Besides, it didn’t matter what his answer was. The question had been meant to poke and prod. Making fun of the fact that the man could put words into his mouth, give him an opinion that wasn’t his own. What was infuriating as well as unsettling, was when a chair was brought for his main torturer to sit on. Rather than facing the screen, he was turned to watch Bucky. Out of the corner of his eyes, it was odd to be able to see the cause of the sound. A granola bar being unwrapped slowly and methodically. The projector started with a simple wave of the hand to the operator before Bernhard took a bite of the snack. Where Bucky had been nervous seconds ago, he became confused fairly quickly at the silent showing of a Merrie Melodies short film called ‘A Wild Hare’. It made absolutely no sense.

“I hear you Americans enjoy this, no?”

Bucky watched as Elmer Fudd crept along in the forest, pointing over to tracks and looking at the camera. He’d seen it with Steve—and dames—when they would go to the movies. They would play it before the feature film, a nice pre-show laugh and moment of relaxation from what was going on in the world. So even though they weren’t playing it with the sound, he still understood it enough from memory. It was when Bugs Bunny’s arm came out, blindingly searching for whatever had been placed outside the rabbit hole and finding the carrot, that he thought he saw something. A change. The flash was barely perceptible, but he swore he saw an image or a word. Blinking, he squeezed his eyes shut tightly to try and clear them from any lingering excess of moisture from when he’d gagged or blurriness due to the healing. Opening wide, he focused hard on the show again. This time the arm came out with the carrot gone, to feel around and find a two barrel hunting rifle. The finger flick to the end of the barrel and along with it came another flash. Almost as if there was a mistake in the cutting of the film…or it’d been done on purpose.

He let his eyes flutter shut, swallowing thickly from the burn starting in his nostrils, the wave of exhaustion at another thing to break him down. Like the record on loop, the intentions were to brainwash him. A foot kicked his shin and he opened his eyes to see the man leaning forward, staring at him hard.

“Tell me soldier, do your eyes still bother you or do you simply refuse to watch?”

They both knew that he couldn’t answer, that he couldn’t speak…Bernhard gave a thinly pressed smile. Bucky stared dead into his eyes, as if to show him that he could see just fine with his newly healed vision. He remembered how he got upset because he wouldn’t follow the order to make eye contact. How could Bucky not? There was no forgetting every little thing they’d done to him, even before the torture started. He thought, his breathing audible and shaking through his nostrils. It didn’t take a genius to realize that he was angry and debating his options. Would his eyes be cut into again, or, worse, removed? Bucky had to believe that if they figured he couldn’t grow an arm back, then he probably couldn’t grow that back too…Right? The corners of his eyes creased in frustration, and increment by increment they shifted back over to the screen before him.

“Wise decision, soldier,” Bernhard spoke, leaning back into his chair and taking a bite of the granola.

The rest of the short film went by with his right fist clenched and body tense. Each small hint of irregularity his enhancements—from the obvious knock off serum—detected within it, he tried to figure out what exactly they laced the innocent cartoon with. What message were they trying to pierce into his brain? Problem was, it was too fast. He couldn’t help thinking that if Steve were there, he might be able to see it. Then again, Bucky _was_ the sniper in the group and tended to notice some things before even good old Captain America could. In total, they went through three different cartoon showings. Ones that they assumed he was familiar with on the basis of where he was from. They were right to assume. They tainted it. He swallowed thickly, muscles relaxing as he interchanged from blinking fast to slow.

Bernhard tilted his head and watched the soldier slump into the chair. The entire session he’d been fascinated in observing him. The soldier’s brow twitching at the correct spots, the confusion and frustration mixing into one expression right after. He enjoyed it more than the actual cartoon he’d had to watch when they were first cutting it. He’d long since finished his snack, having tucked away the wrapper in the pocket he’d pulled it from. Standing with a slap of both palms on his thighs, he was pleased to see the soldier tense once more from the sudden movement. The projector and screen were walked off to the side, placed in the shadows for another time. Bernhard moved closer and stopped, wrinkling his nose. He’d nearly forgotten the soldier had urinated when he’d vomited last.

Attention flicking to the slight bulge of the soldier’s pants, a sign that he would have to relieve himself again. If he were to go right into continuing further physical corrections, the bound brunette would surely release. Bernhard sighed, he supposed a short sponge bath would be in order, only for his own comfort in the tasks he would have to perform. Though this one specific task, he would gladly give to someone else. It didn’t seem like it, but Bernhard _did_ have a line he would not cross. Ordering the two men accompanying him to recline the chair once more, he pivoted on his heal without another word to set up the appointment with the medical personnel in the facility. Maybe even have a break for a meal in his quarters, he’d built up quite the appetite in such a short time and the granola just wasn’t going to cut it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos greatly appreciated. :)


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